


No use wishing on the water, it grants you no relief

by heavenisalibrary



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, I'm so sorry, Pirates of the Caribbean AU???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenisalibrary/pseuds/heavenisalibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think it's funny," Amy says, "that you've got a magic bloody compass that takes you to exactly what you want most in the world, and over and over again, we end up running into River Song."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/gifts).



> Very loose Pirates of the Caribbean AU. It was meant to be River as Elizabeth and the Doctor as Jack, but it ended up being a mish-mash of everything and a huge compression and general glossing over of plot lines. It is, however, slightly more than PWP so you should be proud of me, people.
> 
> Hopefully this puts a dent in my epic poem debt, Pam.

It really isn't his fault. He's a very good Captain, excellent at tracking down treasure and unparalleled when it comes to finding a way out of a sticky wicket. That's perhaps his highest recommendation as a Captain -- just about every pirate under the sun jumps at the opportunity when he docks the Tardis and sends out word that he's looking to pick up a few new crewmembers, and it's not just because his crew tends to retire younger and richer than most, but because sailing with him isn't much of a risk. Oh, he's had a brush with the East India company here and there, and true enough he's got a pirate's brand on his wrist, but he's still alive. He's dreadful at avoiding danger, but he's infamously talented at escaping it. That sort of talent is like currency, to pirates. Still, even Black Beard needed a bit of shut-eye every now and then -- and, true enough, he should have assigned somebody to sit watch instead of trusting his own penchant for inexplicably coming out on top to wake him if dire emergency arose, but _really_ no one is _ever_ in these waters. It's _his_ island, after all.  
  
Well, not technically. Not _legally_. But he found it, and there's never been anyone anywhere near it, and for good reason. It's not just his ego that makes him baffled that anybody was able to pull up alongside them -- the rocks surrounding are absolutely treacherous, and it's nigh impossible to navigate a sizable ship around them without knowledge of them, not to mention an incredibly deft touch. It shouldn't be _possible_ for somebody to reach them. _Certainly_ not in the pitch of the night.  
  
And yet, here he is, tied to a chair below deck, and god knows what's going on above deck. He heard a bit of a scuffle and some shouting when he'd first come-to and gotten his bearings, but now there's just the sound of water beating up against the side of the ship, the water sloshing around his feet with the sway of it all, and the quiet hum of voices overhead. Just brilliant, he thinks. The infamous Captain John Smith, most significant pirate threat left in the Caribbean, knocked unconscious after waking up from a nap and tied to a chair. It's _unbearable._  
  
He's dying to know who managed to get through the rocks, and who managed to subdue his entire crew without much of a fight. He tried to get his hands out of the knots, but they're expertly tied. He's been utterly outdone and incapacitated, and more than anything else, it's _annoying_.  
  
"Done brooding yet?" comes a feminine voice from behind him.  
  
"Sorry, what?"  
  
"That thing you're doing with your face," she says. He hears her boots clacking against the floorboards as she steps nearer, but his back's to her, and he's tied too tightly to turn around.  
  
"I've got to assume it's brooding about being captured, or perhaps irritable bowels."  
  
"Irritable --" he starts in outrage, but whoever it is laughs at him, and the sound of her laughter makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  
  
He strains to turn his neck enough that he can see her, but it just makes his chair wobble, and he goes to flail to steady himself, but he's tied so tightly and all it does is make him sway dangerously to the left. He lets out a yelp as he goes careening to the side, but the woman grabs him at the last moment and rights his chair, swiftly stepping around him so that her face is nose to nose with his.  
  
She grins. "Hello, sweetie."  
  
" _Captain_ ," he corrects. "Hostile takeover or not, do show some respect."  
  
"You're not exactly in a position to negotiate, _sweetie_. And calm down. It's not a hostile takeover. You can have your ship back."  
  
"Then what are you --"  
  
"I just need something a bit bigger and faster than my usual fare," the woman says. "But only for a few days. Then I'll let you and your crew be. Though I'll need to borrow them, too."  
  
She steps back so that he can finally get a good look at her, and he abruptly loses his words. She’s not remotely what he expected. She’s all hair and curves and the sort of smile that could swallow him whole — she wears trousers, which on one hand is good, he thinks, because he had a bizarre mental image of a woman in a massive dress taking over his ship playing in the back of his head, but on another hand, it takes him longer than he’d like to look up. She wears a typical men’s shirt on, fastened with a thick, brown belt around her tiny waist to keep it from gaping open. She’s got all manner of jewelry on, gold and gemstones, the sort of treasures most people keep hidden six feet below the sand — it’s more than a little cocky for her to display her riches so openly, and more than a little dangerous, which shouldn’t make him smile like it does — and a gun tucked haphazardly into her belt. There's a scrap of cloth wrapped around her head, torn and tattered and barely containing the riotous golden curls beneath. Her eyes are the color of the sea when the sun glances off of the water just so.  
  
He takes so long wrapping his mind around the reality of her that it’s a full three minutes before he realizes his hat is sitting atop her head.  
  
He lurches forward, reaching for the hat, but of course he’s still tied up, and he only manages to nearly topple his chair again. The woman reaches out to settle him and he glares at her.  
  
“That’s _my_ hat,” he says.  
  
“It’s also your ship,” she says, “and your crew. All of which I’m temporarily commandeering.”  
  
“ _Commandeering — !?_ ”  
  
“Nautical term,” she says, her eyes sparkling.  
  
“I _know_ what it means,” he snaps. “Who _are_ you?”  
  
The woman laughs, the sound warm and low, making him tingle down to his toes. She steps nearer to him, resting her hands on his thighs in a way that makes him lean back as best he can and blush embarrassingly as she leans into him again so all he can see is her blinding smile, or her oceanwater eyes, depending on where he looks.  
  
“I’m River Song,” she says, and leans in the rest of the way to press her lips to his.  
  
He’d flail of he could, but the ropes and her weight as she leans it on her hands holds him still; her lips are dry and taste of salt and sun, and when she plies his lips open gently with her tongue he sighs and lets her, giving in to his inexplicable need to kiss her back. When she pulls back, his head spins a bit.  
  
“Commandeer,” he repeats, “is for military purposes. You’re not with the East India company, are you?”  
  
She laughs again, and he could swear he can see the sound, weaving out of her mouth and into the curls of her captivating hair. The thought confuses him, and he turns his head, only to find the colors of the world around him running together, and his vision beginning to go black around the edges.  
  
“You poisoned me,” he says, his words slurred and sleepy as he feels his body go lax. He swears he feels her lips against his temple, before she whispers her explanation and her answer to his question in his ear. The ways her mouth brushes against his ear as she speaks feels like summer.  
  
“ _Pirate_ _,”_ she says, and then everything goes black.  
  
  
  
River returns his ship to him, and his crew, neither worse for wear, although his ego feels more than a little bruised. She doesn’t give him any explanation, just tells him that she’d had a score to settle, and needed a bit more fire power than her own smaller, but quicker, ship provided. She blows him a kiss from the bow of her ship as she and her own smaller crew turn her ship away, and he tells himself that he finds it very, very annoying.  
  
Honestly, it’s not like he’d done her a favor. He’s still embarrassed that she’d so easily overtaken him — not to mention the fact that she’d gotten his crew to cheerfully agree to work for her — but less so once he’d woken up after the first time she’d poisoned him and realized that he’d hear of River Song before: she wasn’t just any pirate. She was the Pirate _King_ _._  
  
Not that he kowtowed to that sort of hierarchal nonsense. Sailing to him was freedom, and he wasn’t about to flee one monarchy only to fall victim to another, but still. He was able to write off some of his irritation with the whole situation and restore a bit to his own ego by thinking of it as doing his civic duty. And perhaps a bit of his the slight smile that comes to his face whenever the whole horrible fiasco crosses his mind has to do with her particularly pleasant manner of subduing him when he became particularly argumentative with her, because while he doesn’t like River, and he’s not about to swear fealty to any stupid bloody Pirate King, the kissing had been… nice.  
  
But it doesn’t matter. He’s got his ship back, he’s got his crew — even if they are a bunch of good-for-nothing traitors — and he’s got the open sea before him. So once River Song and her ship are out of sight, he heads to the wheel, pops open his compass, and gives his First Mate Martha their heading. He’ll find a new adventure and forget all about the Pirate King and the taste of saltwater on her tongue.  
  
“You’re very calm about this whole thing,” Martha comments.  
  
“I’m very calm about most things,” he says.  
  
Martha lets out a bark of laughter. “What, you? Calm?”  
  
“I react proportionately to the issue at hand,” he says with a frown, tugging at his green overcoat.  
  
Five minutes later, he nearly crashes the Tardis into a cliff face, too busy shouting upon realizing River made off with his hat.  
  
Standing at the wheel and steering the ship away from the rocky edifice as Captain Smith sits sulking off to the side, Martha rolls her eyes.  
  
“Proportionately, my arse.”

  
  
  
  
He runs into her again a week later, when the compass that was given to him by the sea goddess to only point him toward that which he most desired — which was always all sorts of running and treasure and trouble — brings him to an ongoing naval battle so far off of any coast he can’t make out land anywhere in the distance.  
  
It’s the East India company, of course. It always is. And it’s River, on her little boat, with her crew of vicious women who have no right wielding swords half as well as they do — not because they’re women, of course. He’s not so backward as that, it’s the fact that half of them are still wearing _dresses_ , and manage to cut down the king’s men without fail. Even still, River’s ship is small, and her crew isn’t many, and while they’re clearly holding their own and doing damage, it only takes a few moments of him sizing the situation up from afar to sigh and steer toward the fray.  
  
He’s both unsurprised and highly annoyed to find that his crew is already ready and eager to help River in her little war, before he’s even said anything. They pull up alongside the East India Company ship, sandwiching it between the Tardis and River’s own. Captain Smith passes Jack Harkness on his way down to the canons — he’s truly much too clumsy to ever be much help with swordfights — and makes the mistake of stopping at Jack’s smug expression.  
  
“ _What_ , Jack?”  
  
“That compass of yours,” he says, “still work?”  
  
“‘Course it does.”  
  
Jack continues to smile smugly as he unties a rope from the ship so that he’ll be able to swing across.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, Cap’n,” Jack says, getting a firm grip on the rope and drawing his sword. “Just that it takes you to exactly what your heart desires.”  
  
“This is a pit stop,” Captain Smith says, “a speed hump.”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
“It’s not my bloody fault _she’s_ run into trouble between me and my next adventure!”  
  
Jack laughs, although Captain Smith doesn’t exactly know at what, before swinging across to the other ship and entering the fray with a shout. Huffing, Captain Smith is about to duck below deck to help coordinate the canons when he catches sight of River, in the thick of it. Of course she is. She's a little bit magnificent with a sword, he has to admit. She wields it with a finesse he's never really seen before, and he's too far away to properly make her out, but she seems to be _laughing_. He starts to smile, until he sees that she's wearing his hat.  
  
Sprinting over to the edge of his ship and leaving over the railing, he shouts across the fray to her.  
  
"If you get one scratch on my hat, River Song, there'll be hell to pay!"  
  
She definitely laughs then, loud and bright, kicking the man she's fighting so that he falls down backward, giving her enough time to take off the hat and give Captain Smith a flowery salute with it before replacing it and getting back to business.  
  
"Looking forward to it, John!" he hears her shout.  
  
" _Captain_ ," he grumbles, finally ducking below deck.  
  
A few hours later, it's night time, and what's left of the East India crew has disappeared over the horizon. It really only took an hour or so to make it happen, but his crew had been so keen to fraternize with River's, it had taken him nearly another hour to get all of his people back on board, and all of hers off. She's the last to head back to her ship, leaning against the railing next to the board that connects their ships, her hair wild and matted, her eyes suffused with silver from the moonlight.  
  
"Thank you for your help, John," River says. "Not that I needed it."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Captain Smith says, "you would've lost, and handily. And what would we do without our Pirate King?"  
  
"Indeed," River says with a wry twist of her lips. "Lucky you happened to be sailing by at this exact moment. Careful, Captain, or a girl might think you're following her."  
  
"I'm not following you -- it was an absolute coincidence. After you stole my ship, I'd've been happy to never see you again." It's a lie, and he can tell that she knows it from her expression, but he refuses to acknowledge it.  
  
"I didn't _steal_ it, sweetie," she says, "such a drama queen."  
  
He glares at her, then reaches out to grab his hat off of her head, replacing it on his own. She reaches out to run a finger over the edge of it, stepping closer to him, and she lingers in his personal space, letting her hand drop to her side, and searching his face like she can read it. There are legends about her, he knows. Dozens upon dozens. Tales of her ruthlessness, of her unbeatable sword; he's heard sailors and pirates alike say that she's not a pirate at all, but a sea witch, or a siren -- a mermaid, or Scylla, or Charybdis, she's the sort of woman Davey Jones has nightmares about. He'd rolled his eyes at the stories, but he's got to admit, there's something about the tone of her voice and the way that she talks and the way her eyes change color and the way her smile seems to make up her whole expression sometimes that makes him feel like there's a bit of magic to her. She fills him with that sort of belief, and terror.  
  
"Well," he says, not at all liking the effect she has on him, standing so close. "Best get back to your ship, hm?"  
  
"What?" she asks. "That's it?"  
  
"Am I forgetting something?"  
  
She gives him another one of those all-encompassing smiles. "Oh, shut up."  
  
River reaches out and fists her hands in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him into her and pressing her mouth to his. He's not expecting it, and their lips meet off center -- this time, too, his arms are free and he flails them to the side as she moves her lips gently, but confidently, against his, until he relaxes enough to reach out and rest his hands on the distracting curve of her hips beneath her trousers, pulling her a little closer and opening his mouth to hers.  
  
Kissing River Song without being tied up and -- presumably -- for a reason that isn't knocking him out with her poisonous lipstick is an entirely different experience from his last. Without the ropes, he can touch her, although he does so barely and hesitant, and she melts her body against his in a way that makes him never want to let her go. Her hands slide up his shirt an around his neck, and she cards her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, and then up a little farther, under his hat. He doesn't care as he feels it go a little askew, because kissing her thrills him in a way he'd never felt from anything but adventuring before in his life. She pulls back slightly, and he feels her step away from him, sucking his lower lip into her mouth as she goes; he lets out an involuntary whimper at that, which apparently convinces her to stay, because she steps back into him, tightening her arms around her shoulders and practically throwing her weight at him as she kisses him with renewed vigor.  
  
Her tongue runs along the roof of his mouth, and he lets his hands wander up from her hips, over her sides, then around to her back and a bit lower, just barely brushing the curve of her ass as he backs her into the railing. Her hands lower from his shoulders, and he can tell she's fumbling with something, but he doesn't really care as she arches her body into his, letting one of his hands slide a bit lower to rest on her ass as she moans into his mouth.  
  
He's never really understood the big deal about kissing until now, and he knows he must be pouting when she finally pulls away with a shuddering breath, one hand reaching out to run through the short hair at the base of his neck again.  
  
"I was not expecting that," Captain Smith says. "Oh, really?" River says. "Could've fooled me with all your staring."  
  
"That's glaring. There's a difference."  
  
River grins. "You like me."

"You _stole_ my ship. And my crew. And my hat. And you got me into a fight. Their canons nearly blew a hole in the old girl!"  
  
"But they didn't," River says, "besides, you've got your ship and your crew back. Isn't that enough?"  
  
"You forgot that I also got my --"  
  
Before he can say it, the hand she'd been resting against his neck slips up and under his hat, popping it off of his head and into the air, where she catches it quickly. He lurches toward her to retrieve it, but before he can she tumbles backward over the railing.  
  
His heart leaps into his throat and he feels all the blood drain from his face as he hurries toward the rail, peering down into the water. After a moment of sheer bloody panic, he realizes there was no splash. No woman in the water. His eyes track up the side of her ship until he finds her, safe on board, holding a rope she must've grabbed hold of while she was kissing him, and he wasn't paying attention.  
  
"I hate you," he shouts across the dark water.  
  
"You don't," she responds, waving his hat at him as her ship turns away and recedes into the distance.  
  
He huffs, turning around and stomping away, only to find Amy and Rory sitting atop a couple of barrels, regarding him with matching smirks.  
  
"I hate her," Captain Smith repeats.  
  
"Sure you do, raggedy man," Amy says, in her you're-a-great-big-moron voice.  
  
Unable to argue with Amy, Captain Smith turns toward Rory, who immediately holds up his hands. Glaring at them both and grumbling under his breath, he stalks off to his quarters. No matter how nice it is, kissing River Song, he hopes he doesn't cross paths with her again.


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks later, Captain Smith walks into a cave hoping to find a treasure chest buried there a hundred years prior by a possibly mythical pirate, only to find River Song chained to the rock wall, and no chest in sight. He's so startled to see her, and so startled to see her tied up -- no, not like that -- okay, so a little bit like that -- that he can't think of anything to say. She's got a cloth tied around her head, covering her mouth, but she still manages to look superior, raising a brow at him as he frowns at her, turning away briefly to take stock of the situation.

Apparently he wasn't the first to come looking for the treasure. Apparently River wasn't either. There's a tunnel off of the main cavern they're both in, and if he steps nearer to it he can hear the dim buzz of voices, and a splinter of light right where the tunnel bends. Judging by the brightness of the light, the tunnel goes quite a way down, yet the hum of voices is distinct, and not terribly quiet. Lots of people, then.

Sighing, Captain Smith briefly contemplates leaving River to her fate, but without even consciously deciding, he heads over to her and kneels beside her, peering at the locks.

"Have we got much time?"

River lets out a loud sigh at that, and he looks at her with a frown, only to have her roll her eyes at him.

"Oh," he says, reaching out to tug the cloth loose from her mouth. "Right, sorry."

She clears her throat as he goes back to peering at the locks, trying to figure out the best way to get her out.

"Probably five minutes or so," River says, "little bit less if they're particularly good at counting the treasure they stole from me, but I tend to doubt it based on their smell and vocabulary."

Captain Smith snorts, but keeps the number in mind. "I can pick the lock, but I'm going to need a pin or something."

"In my bodice," River says.

"What?"

"There's a pin, for this exact reason, tucked into the top of my dress."

He looks her up and down. "Why're you even wearing a dress?"

"I was at a party."

"You're chained to a wall!"

Her eyes glint. "It went awry. Now, quick. Grab the pin. Left hand side."

Her words, for some reason he refuses to acknowledge, don't really make sense to him, and he leans back on his heels to squint at her. She rolls her eyes again, shifting her weight to puff her chest out.

"Needs must, honey," River says, but she's smirking.

He spends a few seconds with his hands hovering vaguely over her as he tries to come up with any other way to get her free, but there's nothing. Instead, he shoots her a glare and clears his throat, and lets his eyes drop to her chest. Which he doesn't enjoy, and he absolutely doesn't waste several valuable seconds staring at her breasts, practically spilling over her corset. Taking a deep breath, he leans toward her, resting one hand on her hip, and the other over her collar bones.

He looks up to meet her eyes, waiting for her slight nod before he slides the hand over her chest downward, watching her bite her lip as he slips his fingers carefully beneath the fabric of her dress. Her skin is so soft and warm, and he leans nearer to her as he works his fingers into her dress further, watching the smile wash over her eyes as his nose brushes hers. He feels himself blush as he feels the head of the pin, and ends up practically cupping her breast in his hand as he pulls it out, slower than necessary. When he has it free, he doesn't immediately lean away from her.

"Sure you don't want to leave me chained up, Captain?"

"Why would I..."

Her filthy laugh quickly fills him in. Blushing furiously, he jumps away from her, and sets to picking the lock as River laughter grows, drawing goosebumps on his skin and making him want to melt into the ground with mortification. He gets her out with seconds to spare, her laughing all the while, and though he's as frustrated and embarrassed and bewildered as he always is around her, when she grabs his hand to run down the tunnel and get the treasure back, he finds that he's laughing too.

They get the treasure back and split it evenly. Saying goodbye to River takes a good twenty minutes, his lips following the trail his hands traversed in the cave, and he doesn't blush even a little bit.

When he returns to his quarters, a smile on his face, and the sounds River made as he pressed his lips against her skin committed to memory, he finds his hat sitting on his bed. It only makes him smile wider.

He doesn't know how he keeps stumbling over her, but he hopes he does again soon.

 

 

Next time, a few months later, River stumbles over him, which is convenient, because he's dangling over a meticulously prepared pile of woods and kindling. He can't understand the language the locals are speaking, but he's smart enough to infer that he's going to be dinner. On the upside, there appears to be some sort of party that's going on before they light the flames and roast him alive, so he's at least got time. Unfortunately, his entire crew his in some kind of suspended prison dangling over a ravine, and he has no plan to speak of, so he's both without help and without substantial hope. And then River Song shows up with a couple of her crew women. He doesn't know whether he's relieved, or more frightened to see her.

Definitely more frightened, he decides, as River is embraced by the locals, and begins speaking to them in their language. Gulping and tugging a bit at the ropes that bind him, he reevaluates the situation, hoping to find a way out, but still nothing. He's still restrained, suspended from a tree branch overhead, with his feet barely brushing over the wood pile below him as he sways.

"Got a plan, honey?" comes River's voice.

He rolls his eyes toward her, trying to look as disapproving as he can while hogtied and dangling above a soon-to-be fire. "What for?" he asks. "Am I in some sort of trouble?"

She grins at him. "Can't you tell?"

"Unlike you," he says, "I can't understand a word they're saying. For all I know is how they welcome honored guests."

"Hate to break it to you," River says, "but you're not a guest."

"At least I'm the main course," he says, sounding a lot braver than he feels.

The banter makes him feel like River's going to be on his side, but past experience makes him wary. There are moments in which River is lovely and warm and, frankly, an absolute dream -- but she's also incredibly unreliable. He doesn't mean it as an insult, because he's infamously unreliable himself, but he's not used to dealing with someone else who shares his penchant for tricks and melodrama and tawdry quirks. He knows he's a bit of a trickster, sometimes. He makes port, swoops down on some bored locals, and takes them out to sea in every sense of the phrase. He makes sure that the world he brings them into -- his -- is madder and clearer and harsher and more _fun_ than whatever they leave behind. Sometimes it's dangerous; sometimes their are casualties to his recklessness, but there's also clarity to be found, for the people he brings with him. Inevitably, his friends find their clarity and return home, better for it -- he hates that day, but it's an inevitability. River does the same, only she does it to _him_ _;_ she drags him into her world, which is even madder than his. Her propensity to out-trickster the trickster is what draws him to her, but also what makes her dangerous to him.

"Appetizer," she corrects, approaching him. She stops at the foot of the wood pile, placing her hands on her hips.

"Now that's just insulting."

She smiles wider, tilting her head at him. He meets her eyes, fidgeting against his restraints, and feeling incredibly ridiculous under her scrutiny. He waits for her to speak, or offer some sort of solution, but she just taps her foot against the ground and looks him up and down. It makes him feel even more claustrophobic than the ropes.

"So?" he says, when he can't stand it anymore. "Have _you_ got a plan?"

"Perhaps," she says, "but it won't come cheap. I was waiting for you to make an offer."

"An offer?" he asks. "For your _plan_? That I haven't even heard yet?"

"For your freedom, sweetie. What's it worth to you?"

He wants to tell her he doesn't need her help after all, that he'll be able to figure it out on his own, but the truth is he's not sure how. At the very least there's solace in the fact that she found him this time, and it wasn't his compass bringing him back to her. Unless, he realizes with a cringe, she was on the island first. Sighing and deflating he shrugs as best he can in his current predicament.

"Name your price," he says.

"No, no," she says, smirking. "Too easy. You'll just owe me a debt."

"Owe you a --"

"Don't worry," River says, "it'll be one you won't mind repaying."

The look she gives him makes him blush, but he finds himself agreeing anyway. If nothing else, he does it for his crew -- even if he could figure out how to free himself -- there's a slight chance that once the fire starts, the rope will catch it and snap, giving him time to run away with only major burns, assuming he managed to clamber out of the burning wood pile before he truly caught flame -- he won't be able to get his crew freed without River to at least translate for him. Not that he'll ever hear the end of it once he shows up for them at River's side.

"Fine," he says, "I'll owe you a debt."

River makes an obscene noise, something between a moan and a purr, that makes everybody in the vicinity look at her, and makes him flush even redder.

"Now that," she says, "is the perfect sentence."

 

 

She has him freed and his crew as well, but only after she shares a round of drinks with the locals. She speaks to them only in their language, but he can tell she's talking about him by the way she points, and he's experienced about forty different sorts of mortification by the time his feet finally touch the ground. Finally, after what feels like the longest and most uncomfortable day of his life, he and his crew are free and enjoying dinner -- of the non-human variety -- with River, her crew, and the locals. He's nursing a bit of bitterness in the corner that everyone is so ready and happy to drink and laugh by the light of a bonfire that was prepared with the goal of cooking him alive when River sidles up to him.

"Always brooding," she comments.

He shoots her a glare. "How did you convince them to let me down, anyway?"

"Simple enough," River says. "I stop here every so often. The locals are friendly, once you learn enough about them to be respectful of their culture. They're really very reasonable, very... utilitarian. I just had to convince them that you were important to me."

He turns to face her, his spirits suddenly lightened. She just smiles, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a sip of the local libations. She licks her lower lip when she's through, and he fails spectacularly at not tracking the motion with his eyes.

"I'm important to you," he repeats, smiling wider.

"Or so I convinced them."

"And what did you say to convince them of that, River Song?" he asks, reaching out to tuck a curl behind her ear. "Must've been something very flattering. I'm sure I'd love to hear it."

River steps nearer to him, her body pressed up against his as she reaches a hand up to fiddle with the edge of his coat. He glances around briefly to make sure that nobody's watching -- he would _truly_ never hear the end of it -- and when he's satisfied, turns back to her, looking down at her where she peers up at him from beneath her lashes. In the firelight, she's entrancing.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Very," he says.

"Absolutely certain?"

"Cross my heart," he says.

She leans up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing up against his cheek as she goes to whisper in his ear. Without thinking, he reaches an arm around her, pressing his palm to the small of her back. River doesn't immediately speak, and he very much doesn't mind, instead pressing a kiss to the skin right beneath his earlobe, and then a little further up. She drags her teeth along his skin, sucking his earlobe into his mouth, and he makes a very embarrassing face he's very glad she can't see, pressing his hand more firmly into her back to mold her against him. He bows his head against her as she continues to tease him, biting down gently on her shoulder, and delighting in the shiver he feels run through her body. Only when he's sufficiently distracted and far more interested in dragging her into the woods behind them to continue in private does she pull away to respond.

"I told them you were my slave," she whispers, "my  _personal_ slave."

"What does that even mean?"

"You know," she says, "my  _personal_ slave. To see to my... needs."

He just blinks.

She sighs. "I told them you were my sex slave."

"You..." It takes a few minutes after she steps away slightly so that he can see her for her words to take on any meaning, and once they do, his jaw drops. " _River!"_

She bursts into laughter, doubling over and stepping away from him as he fumes.

"Couldn't you have come up with anything else? What if that gets out? What if one of _your_ crew members translates to one of _my_ crew members and then they think I'm your -- your..." he steps into her, lowering his voice to a whisper, "your _sex slave_."

She laughs again, reaching up to tweak his cheek like he's a small child. "Just wait until I cash in the favor you owe me, sweetie."

"Then what?"

She leans in to whisper in his ear once more. "Then it might be true."

She laughs until she's as red in the face that he is, and drags him back into the group, forcing a cup into his hands and a smile onto his face as she introduces him to everybody. When they part ways, he kisses her goodbye, and grabs her hand before she can walk away. It's a flimsy attempt to steal another moment with her, but she lets him, stepping back toward him as he tangles his fingers with hers and lifts her hand to his lips, placing a kiss on her wrist. When she finally walks away, her fingers slipping through his, it feels like chipping a piece of himself away.

 

 

"What about Singapore?" Amy says. "You love Singapore, and we haven't been in ages."

"Yes!" Captain Smith exclaims. "Singapore! Brilliant. It'll be good to be on land for a while, eh? Take a little vacation."

"You? A vacation?"

"Everyone loves a vacation, Pond."

"Not you," she says.

"Even me," he disagrees, reaching into his pocket to grab his compass. He flips it open, and it spins around a few times before settling on a direction. He glances up at the night sky, his eyes darting around the stars and then back to the compass.

He hasn't got the best sense of direction, but he's positive this compass isn't pointing to Singapore.

"Erm... maybe not Singapore, then."

"I knew it," Amy says, "you hate vacations. What do you fancy?"

He's got an idea of where the compass will take him. Of course he does. But he doesn't want to say it.

"Funny," Amy says, when he doesn't respond. "How we keep running into River, isn't it?"

"Not really. She's the Pirate King. She's got her fingers in everything interesting happening on the water, 'course we run into her."

"I think it's funny," Amy says, "that you've got a magic bloody compass that takes you to exactly what you want most in the world, and over and over again, we end up running into River Song."

Captain Smith snaps his compass shut, adjusting his hat on his head and turning away from Amy to man the wheel.

"My compass is not taking me to River Song," he says, following his heading.

Three days later, they make port, only to find River's ship docked beside theirs. There's a bar fight and a stolen vase, and he ends up spending a good deal of the week running around trying to keep from getting arrested with River. He ignores Amy and Martha and Rory and Jack and their knowing looks and propensity to making kissing noises whenever they catch him grinning stupidly at River, or staring out over the water dreamily. He just likes the trouble she causes, is all. And the kissing. But that's all. It doesn't mean anything.

Only, it keeps happening, over and over again. He says goodbye to River, sets his next heading, and then a few days or a few weeks or a few months later, he runs into her again. They cause trouble, they run, they save the day, they snog, and they say goodbye, sometimes in that order, sometimes not. For the better part of two years, he accidentally on purpose follows River across the Caribbean. Not that she seems to mind -- it's just, he's getting tired of his crew laughing at his continued denial that there's anything to it. It's just a fluke.

His heart's deepest desire cannot possibly be River Song. Or so he keeps telling everyone.


	3. Chapter 3

John is very good as escaping capture. It's one of his greatest assets, really — talking long enough to spot and escape route and taking off while his would-be captors watch on, baffled and a little bit impressed. He's failed a time or two, of course. But he rarely ends up in prison. River, however, spends an awful lot of time locked, tied, and chained up. He doesn't doubt she could evade it if she wanted to, and more often than not there's some method to her madness, but he decides it's something about her he definitely does not like  _at all_ when she starts getting him banged up in jail with her. This time is much, much worse than any of the half dozen times her antics have gotten them arrested, however. This time, he's in a cold, dark cell with a distinct lack of comfy chairs in a poorly maintained jail in a pirate town along the coast, and naturally, as the Pirate King, River presides over it — technically. Pirates aren't very good at following rules or taking orders, and it's not really a town so much as a collection of haphazard buildings and pubs some pirates take some time off sailing in without fear of arrest by the British or the Dutch or whoever's more of a nuisance at the moment, but  _apparently_ they can be bothered to lock him up after a  _tiny_ misunderstanding. He hadn't  _meant_ to start a bar fight, and he certainly hadn't meant to burn the bar down afterward, but these things just tended to  _happen_ to him. And since all pirates are at least allied to rum, they threw him in jail, promising to hang him in the morning.

He invokes parle, as a last ditch effort, and the request confuses them until he starts talking long enough to figure out where to go with his lack-of-plan — River, as it turns out. He tells them that since there's no captain of the island, he must have words with the King. It takes  _a lot_ of talking and some logical acrobatics that, admittedly, he impresses even himself with, but eventually they agree — they'll send for the Pirate King, and if she arrives within the week, she can decide what to do with him. If not, they'll hang him.

He's not  _really_ concerned about hanging — well, maybe a little — but the moment Martha sneaks down to tell him they send for River, he feels his pulse start to race. It's not that he doesn't think he could figure a way out of this, or that he doesn't think his crew could get him out of this, but it's more... to see whether or not she'll come. He'll deny on pane of death that his compass is taking him to River Song, but he can't deny that he  _cares_ for her, and thus he can't deny that finding out whether or not she cares for him is a titillating — and terrifying — prospect. So he tells Martha not to worry about him, and hunkers down in his cell to wait, subjecting himself to  _days_ of listening to his guard prattle on about The Pirate King.

"The Pirate King," he says, "will cut your heart out and eat it still beating."

"Somehow I doubt that," Captain Smith replies.

"I wouldn't," he says, "I've heard she's as ruthless and changeable as the sea. Just you wait, mister. She'll swallow you whole."

Captain Smith just smirks, tipping his hat to cover his face and lying back to wait, and thinking about the sort of filthy comment River would make in reply to that just to make him blush.

 

Five days later, he's starting to think that his guard might be right. His crew sneaks a visit here and there, telling him that there's no ships on the horizon, and that they sent Jenny and Strax out to try and deliver the message as well, giving it a better chance of reaching River — although John knows that's less altruism on Jenny's part, and more a desire to see River's crewman Vastra. Mostly, there's no news. Mostly, he spends his time lying in his awful cell, listening to his guard's horror stories about River. He's thought of a fair few ways he might escape, but he wants to know if River will come. But he also  _doesn't_ want to know if River will come; the guard's stories are fantastic and hyperbolic in the extreme, but they're born from a kernel of truth. He knows the side of River he sees is softer and warmer than most, but that doesn't mean that the other parts of her nature aren't there, just that she hides them from view. He knows that she's not known for being merciful. He knows she rarely leaves survivors. He knows that there's probably some truth to the story the guard tells him of how she once ate a man's heart out of his chest to convince his comrades to help her escape, lest a similar fate befall them. He knows she probably did sink an entire naval ship, crew and all, with her tiny vessel and clever brain. He knows that all the treasure she's amassed that the guard speaks of probably  _is_ soaked in blood, even if not directly on her hands.

He does things that aren't exactly morally upright, too. All the time. Has to — he's a pirate. But spending so much time alone in the dark being told the worst of River, he starts to feel a bit queasy about everything. He'd let her in so easily. She hadn't even had to try, really. She stole his ship and tormented and teased and belittled him at every opportunity, and yet all he ever remembered when he thought back on his time with her was the bright moments: the feel of her hand in his as they ran, the way her eyes lit up in the face of danger, the feel of her hair between his fingers, the hitching noise in the back of her throat when he kissed her neck, the way she laughed at his fumbling and blushing. River Song was a good person, he was sure of it — but he wasn't sure he could say the same thing for the Pirate King, and that thought gave way to doubt.

What if River hadn't cared for him at all? What if she'd been using him to an end he hadn't yet realized — or worse — what if she'd been using him just for  _fun_? He feels like his stomach is constantly at his feet for the next day and a half, and even when he hears a commotion outside that no doubt signals River's arrival, he doesn't feel much better. He's trusted River without a thought — what if it was the wrong decision?

When she descends the staircase and stops in front of his cell, hands on her hips, the guards flanking her — and looking positively terrified, or in love, or both — his whole body sighs. Whether or not he wants to, he trusts River with his life. Despite his dark thoughts, seeing her is an incredible relief.

"What do we have here?" she practically purrs, tilting her head. "A lowlife summoning the Pirate King to save his life?"

John scrambles to his feet and stumbles toward the front of the cell, straightening his hat and gripping the bars as he leans toward her as best he can with the bars between them.

"I've heard stories of you," Captain Smith says, clearing his throat. "They say you're wise, and merciful."

River throws her head back and laughs, her golden curls shaking with her shoulders, and the guards take her cue and laugh as well.

"Oh,  _sweetie_ ," she says, stepping nearer to him. Hearing her call him that is a balm. "You've heard the wrong stories."

She stops when she's nearly nose to nose with him, and standing beside the ghosts of her amazing and terrible doings as told to him by the guards, he can see it. He can see why she inspires so many legends, and such fear. She's like a livewire, sparking with life and confidence and energy. She smiles at him like she's baring her teeth, and he thinks for a moment that maybe River Song will eat his heart right out of his chest — what the guard neglected to note, however, was that he would probably enjoy it.

"Guards," River says, not bothering to turn and look at them. "Give me some time to hear about these... stories."

She waves a hand to dismiss them, and they all immediately oblige. The guard who's been telling John all of the stories looks a bit nervous, but John can't think much on that when River steps even closer, so that she's almost pressed up against the bars as well.

"And what sort of time do you call this?" he asks. "I'm to be hanged at any minute! They could've gotten bored and decided to do it without waiting a full week, you know."

She doesn't respond, turning instead to grab the keys where they hang on the wall, hurrying to unlock the gate with slightly unsteady hands. Before he can even think she's inside the cell and reaching for him, flinging her arms around him and hugging him tightly to her, burying her face in his neck and inhaling deeply, like she can smell him. A hair shy of shocked, it takes John a moment to respond, but then he relaxes and wraps his arms around her, embracing her tightly. She settles against him, and he feels his heart swell in his chest as her lips purse ever so slightly against the skin of his throat as she nuzzles her face into him. He's never noticed how  _small_ River is before — she always seems so much larger than life, sailing around with her sharp wit and cocky smirk. When she inhales, he feels her shake slightly, and he's horrified to think she's crying. He pulls back from her, holding her shoulders and looking at her with a frown. She almost looks like she's on the verge of tears for a split second before she rolls her eyes — at herself, or at him, he's not sure — and straightens herself, glancing quickly at their surroundings.

"I thought I'd be too late," she says. "I thought I'd find you dead."

"I'm fine, River," he says, smiling, rubbing the sides of her arms reassuringly and tugging her a little closer, so he can press a smacking kiss to her forehead. "I'm okay. The king of okay, that's me, yeah?"

Her brows furrows slightly at that, and she steps back from him, wrapping her arms around herself as she fully takes in their surroundings. She does a circle in place, and when she faces him again, any of the vulnerability he'd seen in her expression has vanished, replaced with a cold distance he's not used to seeing in her, not even when she was keeping him tied up below deck.

"You could've escaped," River says.

"Well...  _yeah_ ," he says, "after a point, but I — I invoked parle before I... I panicked."

"And you let them send for me anyway?" she asks, frowning more deeply. He feels suddenly like he's traipsing around a minefield, but he's not sure why.

"I — I, well — they already  _had_ , you see, so I just... waited."

"Hinges, bars, window," River says, her expression more stormy by the second.

"What's that?"

"The different parts of this cell that are rusted you could've used to escape," she says, "there's also a metal rod half under the straw in the corner. Could've used it to grab the keys. I can think of a half dozen other ways you could've gotten out, and stopped the messengers from coming to get me. Need I go on?"

"Uh, erm — no?" he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn't know you'd be so upset to see me."

"This isn't  _seeing_ ," River says. "This isn't me leaving a sign to point you in the right direction when you inevitably turn up on land after me. This isn't you telling a tall tale about yourself to a couple of sailors so I get the message and know where to find you next. This is you, throwing  _my_ weight around. This is you summoning the Pirate King, just because you can."

"This is —  _what_?"

"I'm not a  _pet_ ," River says, stepping back toward him to prod at his chest, rather roughly, with her finger. "I don't come when you  _whistle_ like some dumb dog. I'm not your  _back up_. I'm not  _here_ to prop up your bloody  _ego_." _  
_

"River!" he says, back-peddling as she steps into him, until his back hits the wall. "That isn't —"

"It  _is_ ," she says. "You panicked and invoked my name to save your neck — fine. But then you waited for me to show up and scare your enemies, you  _waited_ for me, sitting on your hands, to see if I would — what? Come to  _heel_ like a good girl?"

She's practically spitting at him, and he's totally at a loss of what to do. He  _had_ been waiting for her, she's right, but it hadn't been to test her as some sort of — he hadn't been trying to see if she was at his beck and call, or — or  _anything_  like that. It had simply been to see if she cared. Which, in retrospect, was a bloody awful thing to do to somebody, to test them in that way, but he'd been filled with such insecurity by the guard's stories, that it had just... it had just made  _sense_ at the time. He gulps.

"I think you forget who I am," River says, all but baring her teeth at him.

"I  _know_ who you are," he says. "You're River Song."

She slaps him so hard his ears ring.

" _River_ ," he grinds out, the moment he can feel his jaw again. " _Stop_ it —"

"I am the Pirate  _King_ ," River says, "do you understand that? Do you understand what I've had to do to get here — the sacrifices I make, the blood I've shed? I'm not proud of any of it, but I am proud to call myself King, and me, showing up on this island, to  _spare_ you... do you have any idea how quickly that will get around? How quickly they'll say I've gone soft? How quickly they'll find  _you_ and..." 

"You're worried for me," he says, rubbing his jaw, feeling a little bit stunned. 

"Of course I'm bloody  _worried_ for you, you  _moron_ ," she spits at him. "And I'm  _angry_ that you'd put yourself in this position, I'm angry that you'd put  _me_ in this position. I won't be used, John. Especially not by you."

She reaches out to shove him against the wall, but he grabs her wrists, holding them tightly in her hands. She struggles against him for a split second before she relaxes, eying him warily as he rubs the insides of her wrists gently with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't think it through. I wasn't trying to... throw your weight around, or bring you to... whatever else you said. That wasn't it at  _all_. I was going to escape, straight away, but I... I wanted to see if you would come."

Anger flares up in her eyes again, but he shakes his head, tightening his grip on her hands.

" _Not_ like that," he says, "I don't even think of you as — as the  _Pirate King_. I wasn't thinking about that. I was thinking about  _you_. About  _River_. I just wanted to see... to see if you'd come for me. To see if I... I mattered. Erm. To you. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tested you like that. But it wasn't about your title or your power, or — or anything like that. It was about you. And me. Well, mostly me. I was being a selfish prick."

"You can say that again," she says. She's still tense, and her expression is wary, but she hasn't slapped him again, and he takes it as a good sign, smiling slightly.

"I was being a selfish prick."

"Don't ever do this again," she says, "if you can escape, you escape."

"I know," he says, "I'm sorry. I will."

"I'm serious, John. I won't always be close enough to save your neck, even if it is a farce, and I _certainly_ won't attend your burial."

"No?"

"No," she says, "I refuse."

Her expression softens, then, and he sees how scared she was — he's had to save her from dangerous situations every once in a while, but she's almost always able to save herself if need be, and so he knows there's a buffer, there. Even when he's terrified for her life, which happens often, he's always certain she knows a way out. He can't imagine how he would've felt if she had _sent_ for him like this, and the thought instantly makes him feel awful; he would've been absolutely useless, rubbish and shaking and sick over it until he saw her safe. He's not ready to admit that his compass is taking him to her, over and over again, because that thought is big and scary and potentially painful, but he can admit that he cares for her. He cares for her a great deal. He brings her hands up to his lips to kiss her fingertips before resting their entwined hands against his chest, pulling her forward slightly.

"I really am sorry," he says.

She sighs. "I know. Me too. I was angry, and worried I — I overreacted."

"You _hit_  me," he says.

"Poor baby," she says, disentangling her hands from his to reach one up, brushing her fingers over what will undoubtedly be a red mark on his cheek. "You know I'm not going to get you out of here."

"I realize that," he says. 

"I look forward to some daring heroics, however."

"I'm sure I'll come up with something."

"You're not too put out that I'm going to leave you to hang?"

"Not particularly," he says, "but my cheek  _does_ sting."

She hums, tilting her head at him.

"Kiss it better?" he asks with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes at him, but doesn't resist when he leans in to press his lips to hers. He feels her lips curl against his mouth, and can't help but do the same. The moment he opens his mouth to her, though, her grip on his shoulder begins to bite, and she presses her body tightly against his. She sighs shakily into his mouth, kissing him with a desperate edge to match the feeling of her fingernails digging into his shoulders. He kisses her back, trying to slow her down, but she seems bound and determined to kiss him hard, to cut into him with her nails, to shove him back into the wall with her body, like she's trying to prove that he's there, and solid, and real. Her teeth graze his bottom lip as she pulls away, breathing heavily, and he tries to push her back from him to properly look at her, but she ducks her head with a gasp, sliding her hands down to grasp at his shirt.

"Don't ever do this to me again," she says.

"I already —"

"No," she says, still looking at the ground. "I mean it, sweetie. Don't  _ever_ do this to me again."

"Alright," he says, quietly, nodding. He covers her hands where they clutch at his shirt, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Alright. I promise, dear." 

She inhales unevenly and nods, looking up at him, her face impeccably composed. He leans forward to kiss her temple, wrapping his arms around her and hugging him to her like he did when she first arrived in his cell. She sighs again, her weight collapsing into him. Slowly, he slides onto the dirty ground, holding her to him, and she curls up against him, tucking her head beneath his chin as he strokes a hand up and down his back.

"This goes both ways, you know," he says, "you can't die either, if I'm forbidden from doing so. I won't be left alone without you."

She huffs out a quiet laugh. "Oh, sweetie. I think I made a terrible mistake stealing your ship, all those months ago. Nothing's been easy ever since."

"Nothing easy is ever worth it," he quips, "unless you feel like springing me from jail right now, no questions asked, in which case easy sounds brilliant."

"Not a chance," she says, "you'll be taken captive or killed before you can get a league from the shoreline. Many would pray a pity penny for anything that matters to the Pirate King."

He clears his throat, but before he can speak she laughs, reaching for his hand to pull his arm more tightly around her. 

"You matter to me," she says, answering his original question. "Now shut up, and stop ruining our moment. The guard will be back any minute and I'll have to rough you up a bit before sending you to the noose."

He wonders how often in her life River's allowed herself to be held like this, and he holds her all the tighter for the thought. He doesn't know much about her past — stories of the Pirate King are conflated with so many legends that it's impossible to pry a shred of truth from them — but he knows bits and pieces she's mentioned to him, from time to time. He knows that she's done some terrible things, in her time. He knows that being a woman, coming to rule over the seven seas has been an even harder task than it would've been otherwise; he can imagine the sort of displays of brutal strength and mercilessness she must've had to put on, the sort of actions that spurred the guard's stories. But he knows she didn't like it, because she mentions it sometimes with a small, sad twist to her lips, and he knows that she did it for the greater good. The world is a dangerous place for a woman, and River has made her ship into a haven. Oh, she hasn't told him as much, but he's spent enough time with her crew to have heard of their origins, now and again. Housewives itching for freedom, little girls sold to those they didn't love for marriage, maids and prostitutes and all manner of women and girls who fell into the margins with no one to lend them a hand, except for River. Her reputation is quite terrible, but holding her, trying to find some sort of perspective between the terrible tales the guard told him and what he knows of her and her crew, he thinks the reality of her is very much the opposite. So he listens to her words, stays quiet, and holds her tight.

 

He manages to escape the noose with some dashing heroics that he can tell even River is impressed by — although she'll later call it  _utter lunacy_ — but he can tell she's still a little angry about being summoned, because before he can get to his ship, she's sailing away with it,  _and_ his crew. He has to swim after them for an hour before she bothers to lower a rope. 

 

They meet each other on the water, one winter. It's cold and the ocean is restless, waves swaying higher and higher, beating up against the hull of the boats with increasing strength. River maintains her ship and choreographs her crew expertly, but he worries about it being tossed about in the storm. Somehow, he convinces her and her crew to come aboard the Tardis, tying River's Pearl to the side to keep from losing it in the storm and taking every possible precaution to protect it, should the weather gets bad.

He knows she'll jump right back on board the Pearl at the first sign of actual trouble, no matter the risk to herself, because he'd do the same thing. A ship isn't just a ship, it's an idea -- it's freedom, and he knows River feels that just as keenly as he does.

Still, it's nice to have time without mortal danger nipping at their heels. It's freezing cold, and the storm grows larger every moment, and maybe there's danger in the later in the night, but for a moment everyone's huddled below deck around a few lanterns, drinking and laughing and enjoying one another's company. Part of him resents how much his crew loves River, but her crew seems to care for him as well, and so he lets the resentment pass. It's rare to find trustworthy and loyal friends, as a pirate. He'll treasure these, and this stolen time.

River spends much of the evening cavorting with their crew members, only sparing him a glance here and there -- she seems to have taken a particular shine to Amy and Rory, who treat her like family from the word go -- but when everybody's sufficiently sloshed and sleepy, she makes her way to where he sits in the corner, and drops onto his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. He only flails a little bit before settling his arms around her waist. It's more comfortable than he'd like.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.

"To the excessive quantity of rum your people practically forced down my throat."

"Amy and Rory?" he says. "They're not my people."

She laughs, and he smiles to hear it. "They love you."

"They might love you more," he says.

She pats his cheek. "Don't pout, sweetie. It got me into your arms, didn't it?"

He snorts. "I don't seem to recall ever having trouble with that before."

River reaches a hand down to trace over his hands where they're clasped over her hip as she speaks, her smile a bit woozy, her eyes swimming slightly in the dim light. He finds tipsy River Song annoyingly adorable.

"The first time we kissed," River says, licking her lips, "you didn't get me in your arms at all."

"You tied me up! And _drugged_ me!"

River doubles over with laughter, and when she finally sits up and looks at him, he can't help but lean forward and kiss her. She leans into him readily, opening her mouth to him with a quiet gasp, her hands crawling up his chest to grip the fabric of his shirt tightly between her fingers. He unclasps his hands, leaving one on her hip to pull her closer, the other rubbing gently up and down her thigh. The curve of her hip beneath the thin, tight fabric of her trousers tantalizes him, and he sits up straighter, pulling her more tightly to him.

She tastes like rum and salt, her tongue sliding slickly against his, her teeth grazing his lip as she pulls away. She just looks at him for a moment, reaching a hand up to brush his hair back from his forehead. Her eyes a bright from the rum, her lips red and swollen from kissing, she looks every bit as terrifying and mystical as people rumor her to be and he wants in that moment, in a way he never has before, no matter how scary.

He reaches a hand up to tangle in her hair, tugging her lips to his again and kissing her hard, leaving one hand on her thigh and curving it inward so that his thumb strokes against her inner thigh in a way that makes her squirm against him -- which, really, is becoming an uncomfortable situation for him, at this point. Before he can pull away and convince her to take this somewhere else, a chorus oooooohs and shouts of K-I-S-S-I-N-G  raise up around them, and they jump apart.

He blinks, feeling dazed as they look around them to see both of their crews staring at them with knowing smiles, chanting and hooting and hollering. River laughs, burying her face in his neck and pressing a kiss to his skin.

"Alright," he says, easing River off of his lap. "Shut up, the lot of you. But especially you, Jack."

River entwines her fingers with his and leads him toward the stairs to the deck, and Captain Smith feels himself go red from the attention as their crews continue to laugh.

"Taking her to your room, are you, Captain?" Amy calls out, waggling her eyebrows. One of River's crew, Clara, gags beside her.

"I'm not -- she's not -- we're not -- it's just cold, is all. We've got to keep warm."

Everyone guffaws anew. He realizes immediately that was not the thing to say. He fixes his eyes on River's back as they head up the stairs, irritated to see her shoulders shaking with laughter.

"I'm sure you'll keep her plenty warm," Martha says to another round of catcalls.

"Let me know if you want to make it a threesome," Jack says, "you know, for... warmth."

Before he can respond, River gives his hand a tug and brings him onto the deck. The weather's gotten worse, and the ship seems to toss about more violently now that they can see it against the thrashing waves. They quickly make their way to his quarters and duck inside.

"You shouldn't have -- we shouldn't have -- you shouldn't have come up here! They'll think we're..." he gestures vaguely as she laughs at him.

"We were going to have to come up here eventually, unless you wanted to give them a show," River says, "in which case I'm happy to return below deck and --"

"River!"

She laughs again, her hands dropping to untie her belt and dropping it to the ground beside her.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Taking off my clothes," she says calmly, tugging her shirt out from where it's tucked into her trousers. It gapes open and provides him a glimpse at her bare chest, which becomes a whole view once she pulls it over her head and tosses it to the side with her belt.

He nearly chokes. "Erm, uh, I -- why, er... why are you doing that?"

Even as he asks, he reaches behind him to lock his door, and then steps toward her.

"Because if I waited for you to take the initiative," River says, "we'd never even have met."

"What?" he asks, scrubbing a hand over his face, and trying to focus on the conversation, rather than River as she toes off her boots and begins to shimmy her trousers down over her hips. Naturally, she's not wearing any knickers. His trousers feel abruptly too small. "You found me on purpose?"

"I'm the Pirate King," River says. She sheds her trousers, turning away from him and head toward her head and, god, he's trying so hard to focus, but the view of her bare body from behind -- yowza. "I don't keep often in the company of others in any sense of the phrase, but I do like to know what's going on with me people, which you are, even if you like to pretend you're not. I only started hearing about you in the past five years or so."

She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder as she stepped onto his bed and giving him a wink. Yes. His trousers are definitely, inexplicably three sizes too small.

"The wealthy, upper class English boy who went to all the best schools and all the right parties, only to join the navy. Not as an officer, not as a favor to his family -- which he could've done -- but at the bottom of the ladder, starting with nothing and working his way up to command his own ship, only to turn on the British and his family, and go pirate. And not just any pirate -- no, you stole a ship, turned its flags black, and made a name for yourself. A big, loud name. Ooh, sweetie, I've been dying to meet you for years."

"You've been stalking me," he says, raising his brows.

"Only by proxy," she says, "I've been dying to ask you one question."

He's uncomfortable that she knows so much about him, when he doesn't have a clue where she came from. She's known, and talked about, and certainly he's heard theories about where she came from or who she really is, but she's such a mythical figure in most circles, she's become impossible to pin down. Or maybe she isn't.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly begins to strip off of his clothes. It feels almost ceremonial as she settles back on his bed, looking like a goddess lit by the lamplight by his bedside, watching him. First she stripped herself bare, and she didn't just lay her cards out, but let him know that she'd peaked at his hand. He owes her the same. She waits patiently as he undresses, and when he's through, he slowly walks toward her.

"I was just thinking," he says, "it's unfair that you know so much about me, but I don't know anything about you. You're a bit of a legend, you know."

"You're not exactly anonymous," River says, "or I wouldn't've sought you out in the first place."

"True. People know my name. But you're literally a legend, River Song. People think you're a siren, or a goddess, or a demon from the deepest, darkest corners of the sea. I've heard sailors in pubs wax poetic about how your hair must be made from curls of the sun, how your eyes are seaglass, how your skin is as fine and golden and soft as the sand on the most beautiful beaches in the Caribbean. I've heard morality plays where you were the monster, and fairy tales where you were the good witch who saved everyone. So when I say you're a legend, River, understand that it is a very different thing from simply having your name known.

And I was thinking that it's unfair, that I can't know anything about you, because stories of you hardly have a shred of truth to them, but then I realized that I know exactly what's important."

"Really?" River says, sounding a bit breathless. She sits up, sliding to the edge of the bed. "And what's that?"

"You're not a siren, or a goddess, or a demon," he says, "you're not a sea witch or a monster or the good queen from a fairy tale. You're River. You're human, and real, and better than all of that. You're clever and kind and funny, and have more love in your flesh and blood human heart than there is magic in all of those stories. Everyone's made you into a story, and they're good stories, really. But the reality of you is so much better."

She's up from the bed and launching herself into his arms before he can blink, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist as he stumbles back with the weight of her. Catching himself as she crushes her lips to his, he wraps his arms tightly around her and moans into her mouth to feel all of her against him, her skin smooth beneath his palms. He ambles toward his bed, carefully lowering her onto it and covering her body with his, kissing her until he's dizzy with the taste of her and breathless.

She drags in air as he pulls away, her chest heaving as he slides his mouth down her throat, sucking gently, his teeth scraping gingerly against her skin. As he kisses his way down her neck, laving his tongue over her collarbones, she reaches between them to take him in hand, running her fingers over him until his whimpering against her skin. He reaches a hand between them as well, palming her breast and thinking about that time he pulled the pin out of her bodice, and how he'd blushed to do it. He didn't blush now, only applied more pressure as she moaned, arching her body off of the mattress and into him. She gave his erection a squeeze, sliding her fingers up to trace over his head, and he pulled his lips away from her skin to gasp against her throat.

"I don't like the stories," River says. "They make me feel -- honey, _please_..."

Pressing a last kiss to her throat, he leans his full weight over her, balancing carefully on one arm as he reaches the hand that had been paying attention to her chest down over her stomach, feeling the muscles tremble, before finding a home between her legs. She moans loudly as he slides his fingers through her wet folds, and he's glad for the storm raging outside in that moment.

"They make me feel... so insubstantial. Like I'm an idea, not a person. Someone's fantasy -- _oh_ \-- someone's nightmare... You..." she trails off on another moan that seems to roll through her whole body, and he feels her inner muscles trembling as he works his fingers in and out of her in a steady motion. " _More_ , sweetie..."

Pulling his hand back, he brings it up to his lips, but she grabs his hand with hers, sucking his fingers into her mouth, her tongue wrapping around them in a way that makes him even harder, if that's even possible. He leans down to kiss her again as he balanced his weight with an arm on either side of her, as she reaches between them to guide him into her; he slides in slowly, his mouth pressed to hers so that he feels it the next time she moans, down to his bones.

Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he asks in her ear, "and how do I make you feel?"

She laughs breathlessly as he pulls out of her, and then thrusts back in, deeper than before. She hikes her legs up his hips, wrapping them around him and locking them at her ankles.

"Look who's suddenly a smooth talker."

"What can I say," he gasps, circling his hips on his next thrust and making her breathing hitch, "I'm feeling inspired."

The ship lurches with the storm, and he moves with it, until he's rocking his hips against her with the undulations of the ship. She throws her head back, her hair a halo around her, and he kisses her neck, feeling her clench around his cock.

"River?" he asks, nuzzling his nose against her jaw until she drops her head down to look at him again, her eyes hazy. The ship begins to rock harder, and so does he. "Tell me."

"You make me feel solid," she says, "real, loved, whole -- you make me feel like a person, not a monster. God." One of her hands fists in the sheets, the other scraping nails down his back so that he shudders, pounding into her harder as he feels her trembling around him more and more, her heavy breathing turning into gasps turning into moans that grow louder and louder with their movements.

Outside, there's a clap of thunder that matches perfectly with her gasp, and the waves rise and rise, tossing the Tardis sharply; he and River slide on the bed, but he moves with the storm, until it feels like part of it, until it feels like they're one with the wild, jagged motions of the sea and her moans roll with the thunder and his own gasps become the howling wind -- River is real and solid and beautiful and human, but together they feel divine.

When River comes, she screams, her voice rising beneath a clap of thunder.

He follows shortly after, chanting her name into her skin like the rushing of the water against the side of the ship. He slides off of her when he's caught his breath, rolling onto his back beside her. He reaches for her hand, and they entangle their fingers, breathing heavily and listening to the storm for a few moments.

"You said you wanted to ask me a question," he says.

She smiles. "You threw away your bright, shiny future, betrayed King and country, and ran away to be a pirate."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I found out the expeditions they were sending me on," he says, "the lands I was charting. There were ships following my progress, taking the people for slaves." He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling his skin crawl with familiar revulsion at the atrocities his work had allowed to happen. He doesn't like to think about it, or talk about it, but for River he'll lay himself bare. "I'd rather be a criminal than a slave trader. Besides, I never liked those people anyway. I swear, I worked with Beckett for years, knew him from when we were kids, but I never saw him so happy as he was the day he caught me and branded me a pirate."

She rolls over, spreading herself over him, and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Love a bad boy, me."

He snorts, cradling her to him, and falling asleep to the sound of her breathing and the white noise of the storm raging outside.

 

When he wakes up, the storm has passed. He glances out the window to his side, and sees some of River's crew members preparing to sail off. Sitting up, alarmed, he realizes that his hands and feet are tied together.

"What on --"

"Careful, sweetie," River says, and he looks over sharply to see her rifling through his drawers. "Wouldn't want to get any blemishes on that lovely skin."

"What are you doing?!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asks, glancing at him over her shoulder as though he's the crazy one, as she stuffs some valuables into her bag.

"Robbing me -- why!?"

"Sweetie," River says, slinking over to him where he's trying to sit up on the bed and leaning toward him. "You've got a fearsome reputation. I even add to it when the opportunity arises, because I care for you. But you're just a good sailor boy, looking for a way out. I'm a pirate. You're an easy target."

He gapes at her. "But we..." He purses his lips, making kissing noises at her, and she laughs, resting a hand on his bare thigh.

"Yes," she says, shrugging.

He just stares at her, and her serene expression, and the bag of his own valuables she's collected across the room. "I'm going to come after you."

"You'd better," she says, and then she leans in to kiss him. He wants to protest, to tell her how unnecessary this is, or that he'd all but give her anything she asked for, but all he can do is kiss her back until he nearly forgets that she's tied him up and robbed him. Pulling away from him and grabbing her bag, River heads toward the door. "I'll tell Jack I've left a present for him in your room."

"River!"

"Don't worry, he's a good boy, he won't do anything you don't want," she says. She turns the knob, but at the last minute turns around to add, "however, if you do want, I want to hear _all_ about it."

She slips out of the door and shuts it behind her. He thinks about shouting, but right before he does he spots his hat, resting on the desk that she'd been robbing. Sighing, he lies back, and waits for Jack to find him. Then he'll worry about River.

 

He goes after her, but she's actively evading him this time, and she has a head start. He chases her for months, stopping every so often for supplies or a side-trip when his crew gets too restless. Finally, he finds the Pearl docked in Tortuga. He lets his crew go off and enjoy themselves, because it's not as though he's going to fight River... he thinks.

He finds the Black Pearl empty, not even anybody left behind to keep watch, and he putters around the deck and below, looking for what she'd taken from him. He feels like he's looked everywhere, and is about to give up and go looking for River herself when he realizes he still hasn't searched her quarters. He picks the lock with the pin he keeps tucked in his boot, ever since the mortifying first incident with River -- though he'd be less embarrassed to do that now -- and swings the door open.

River's inside waiting for him, sitting on a plush armchair in the center of the room, stark naked.

"Hello, sweetie," she says.

"Uh..." he responds.

He'd been planning on getting some sort of revenge on her. Instead, he spends three days in bed with her, and totally forgets to bring the valuables she'd nicked with him when he leaves.

He'll never admit it to her, but she was right: he isn't a very good pirate at all.

**  
**


	4. Chapter 4

After that, he gives up pretending that he's not following River. He still hasn't told her how he keeps finding her, because although the mechanics of his compass are simple, the implications of it only guiding him are a reality he only dimly acknowledges. He doesn't see her terribly often -- there's still an ocean between them, most of the time, not to mention the occasional landmass -- but it's regular enough that it starts to feel like a routine. She starts to feel familiar. His crew is accustomed to finding her slipping out of his quarters early in the morning --although now they're all ordered to search her before letting her disboard -- and her crew leaves a lantern on the deck so he doesn't trip over everything if they see his ship on the horizon when he inevitably climbs aboard.

It's harder to stay away from her. It's harder to ignore that he doesn't want to. Every time he runs into her, he pulls out his compass the moment she's out of sight. It's easy enough to keep his crew happy as he follows the Pirate King across the globe, because River is just as attracted to trouble and treasure as he is.

If anything, while he's following River, their profit increases, and certainly their excitement. They even end up exchanging crew members, here and there -- one of his sailors, Vastra, switches over to River's crew after falling in love with River's first mate Jenny. He gets a highly bossy and irritating -- however lovable, though he won't admit it -- new crew member in Clara, who says she's just looking for a change, but he doesn't miss how Clara spends all of her time with his first mate. He thinks there's no more terrifying thought in the world than hypercompetent, whip-smart Martha with bossy, calculating, overeager Clara -- mutiny has never seemed more possible -- but he's thrilled to see them happy. The only crew member from either ship who doesn't seem keen on their newfound family is River's Donna, who spends most of her time shouting at John.

Still, he's careful to give her just enough of a head start that she doesn't see him following her, or else he'll take brief pit stops. He's not ready to explain the compass to her, nor what it means, and so he makes sure that it looks like at least some amount of chance figures into his consistent reappearances into her life. He even lets her find him, from time to time. She doesn't ever ask if he's following her, and since they're both so attracted to shiny things and dangerous situations, it's easy enough to pass it off as coincidence. Part of him hates the whole charade, and another deeper part of him hates that he needs it, and her, but the moment she cliff-dives into the ocean and swims to his waiting ship, or leaves directions for him in the form of a carefully constructed fire on a beach, or gives him cheek in the face of life-threatening danger, he falls a little deeper, and cares a little less about those parts.

He catches up to her on a small, sparsely populated island, when he spots the Pearl resting haphazardly on the beach. He -- or mostly Martha, though he'd never admit it -- beaches the Tardis beside River's ship, and gives his people free rein as he goes after her. Unfortunately, it's only after doing so that he realizes River and her crew are on the island so that River can preside over a meeting that pirates much more dangerous and infamous than he is are attending en masse.

He stumbles upon the meeting accidentally, and literally. River practically drags him out by his ear, the moment it's over.

"What were you thinking? They could've shot you, just for stopping by."

"You're in charge of them, aren't you? I know you like to do the whole moral ambiguity riff, but I doubt you'd let them shoot me."

"Don't be so sure," she says. "What are you even doing here? You can't keep following me, honey. There are some places you just shouldn't be."

"I've got a fearsome reputation of my own, you know."

"Yes, but I know you," she says, "it's all bark and no bite. You might be able to intimidate people into taking a step back with your name, but the moment you nearly cut your arm off drawing your sword, it'll fall apart."

"I'm getting the impression you think I'm incompetent."

"No," River says, sighing. "Just... differently competent."

"Brilliant," he says, "now I'm getting the impression that you think I ate paste as a child."

"You're cleverer than anybody I know, other than myself, and you can get yourself out of nearly anything with that big, sexy brain, but it's not much use against a room full of heathens who are just as likely to gut you like a fish."

"Point taken," he says. "I didn't interrupt on purpose. I was just..."

"What are you doing here? I asked before, you didn't answer."

"I was, erm..." he trails off, floundering. He realizes that generally, when the compass brought him to River, he had an explanation on hand. Either he was immediately sucked into whatever trouble she seemed to stir up around her, or someone recognized him and she was immediately sucked into the trouble he seemed to stir up around him, or there was an actual reason for his presence. "I was, well, uh -- looking for you."

"Looking for me."

"Yes."

She fixes him with a dubious look. "In all of the Caribbean and beyond, you were looking for me, and happened to find me here. On this island. That isn't on any maps."

He gulps. "Er... yes. There's something about how I travel that I maybe... haven't told you."

"Oh?"

He unconsciously reaches a hand into his pocket, fiddling with his compass. "Can we go back to talking about how you think my brain is sexy?"

She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Alright," he says, "but you have to promise not to say anything."

She makes a cross over her heart with one hand, looking profoundly irritated with him. He pulls out his compass, and hands it to her. She opens it. He wishes he could see where it was pointing for her, but he was wary of getting close when she was looking so cross with him.

"It's a broken compass."

"Ah, you see? It's not," he says, "it's a compass that doesn't point north. Who needs north, or south, or west, or east for that matter? Never going to get you anywhere worth going. What's even better than a compass that points north, is a compass that points exactly where you need to go."

She squints at him.

"Not where you need to go, exactly," he says, pausing to take a deep breath. "It points you in the direction of whatever your heart most desires in the moment that you're holding it. And, as it happens, for the past couple of... years now, really... my compass is always -- that is, it keeps bringing me back to you."

He looks up at River and sees her expression soften as she snaps the compass shut and hands it back to him.

"You're telling me I'm your heart's greatest desire?"

"Shut up," he says.

She grins, stepping into his personal space. "Make me."

So he kisses her, tangling his hands in her hair and tugging her close, and if his hands tremble slightly where he holds her, she has the good grace not to mention it when they part for air.

"Oh, bugger," she says instead, frowning at him as she reaches up to smudge her thumb against the corner of his mouth. "Don't panic, sweetie, but I forgot I was wearing lipstick."

"Your _poison_ lipstick?"

"Hallucinogenic," she corrects, "and yes. I always wear it to these meetings. Never know what this oafs are going to do, or when I'm going to need to make a quick get away."

He starts to feel a bit woozy, his vision filling with colorful dots. He squints, trying to focus.

"Do these... do they... often try to kiss you, that you do this?" he asks. She reaches a hand out to steady him as he sways dangerously, helping him to find a seat on the ground. "Do you kiss people, River? Other people? Not _me_ people?" He knows it's at least in small part the drugs, but the thought suddenly makes him want to cry.

She laughs, and he can see her laughter in front of his eyes, golden and spiralling. "No, sweetie. Besides, you've just told me I'm your heart's desire, for years now. It would be rude of me to go about snogging other pirates."

"I hate pirates," he mumbles as his vision goes black, "stupid bloody pirates and their... lipstick..."

****  
  


When he comes to, he's back in his quarters, with River sitting on the edge of his bed, peering over him with a look of slight concern. She smiles to see him awake, reaching a hand out to brush his hair from his face in the sort of soft, affectionate gesture, he never really associates with her. He grabs her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her palm. She closes her fingers around the place where he'd kissed as she pulls her hand away, holding it against her chest.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says. "It really was an accident this time."

"S'alright," he murmurs, "I was only pouring my heart out to you."

She grins. "It explains a lot. I always wondered why you kept popping up."

He's struck suddenly by a thought. "If I hadn't kept ending up with you -- and believe you me, it was accidental for a long time -- would you have sought me out again? After that first time?"

River takes a deep breath, opening her mouth to respond before closing it again. He frowns at her, but instead of shying away like he expects, she instead settles herself onto the bed next to him, curling into his side and resting a hand over his heart.

"The second time I saw you," she says, "when you help us fend off that ship, and I jumped over the railing. You'd thought I'd fallen, but I was on my deck quick enough to watch your face. You hardly knew me, and I'd really just meant to have a bit of fun with you, but you were white as a sheet. I could see it, even in the dark, how much you cared for someone you didn't even like."

"I liked you," he says.

"Until that moment," she says, "you mostly looked at me like you were afraid I was going to bite you."

"To be fair, you did," he says, "it was just a lot... sexier than I'd expected."

She laughs. "Yes, well. It was that moment. You, caring, panicking, white as a sheet, for me. My crew cares for me, and I for them, but it's different. There's a quid pro quo. I take them on when they need a way out, and so they're devoted for me. You just -- cared. I remember thinking, he's going to dive in after me, and I didn't even fall." She sighs. "My heart fell at your feet."

"River?" he says, nuzzling his nose against her temple. She hums. "Where did the compass point, when you were holding it?"

"You know where, you idiot," she says, drawing an x over his heart with her finger.

He thinks about asking River to travel with him. Their crews get along, and the Tardis is more than big enough to take on her crew too -- it would be like one big blended familyy. He imagines they'd get into far more trouble than they already did, with both of them on board, and it would also take much longer to make any decisions, because they're both terribly stubborn.

"I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no," she says, quietly.

"I know," he says, "that's why I didn't say it out loud."

"One captain per ship, don't you think?"

"Couldn't agree more, dear. I do still have a question, though," he says.

"Oh?"

"If I kiss you, am I going to pass out again?"

"Probably not, but I make no promises," she replies.

He kisses her anyway.

****  
  


They never travel together, and they hesitate to call it a relationship; it's more like a construction of perpendiculars. He chases her, and she lets him. Sometimes, it doesn't feel like enough, and they linger too long at one port, and River slips away in the night with some stolen knick-knacks, only to let him catch up to her a month later. Sometimes they fight, and he leaves his compass buried in a desk drawer for months at a time, until it starts to ache, and he finds her again. Once or twice, she finds him.

Their love ebbs and flows with the tide; more or less, depending on the day. Sometimes too much, and sometimes too little, but it's the only treasure either of them truly hold dear, and the only one no one else can take from them.

The most feared pirate in the Caribbean and his King sail the seas for decades, carrying many secrets with them both, but the most important is one they learned right from the start: never say goodbye like it's really the end. That way, something is always beginning.

****  
  



End file.
